Thy Reality Consumed
by The Humanized Marionette
Summary: There have been countless incursions carried out by the Umbral Plane and its denizens, not just the two written in slabs of stone and tales of ole. Gather around and listen as these stories are spun for those willing to partake in this regaling.


**Dusty Viscera**

Fear.

Among many things, fear has proven to be and still is the most effective motivator, the single thing capable of delivering utter control unto any man, woman or child. Fear drives the desperate into taking spasmodic action in a feverish attempt to prolong their life; it has a profound effect on a war, either crippling or bolstering the resolve of entire armies; and yet the most impactful result fear could bring about were in the reputation of important icons located throughout the annals of history. Examples of such terrifying individuals were Genghis Khan, Vlad the Impaler, Elizabeth Báthory, and Gilles de Rais–they dominated those of a lower status than themselves by way of intimidation, cruelty, and often psychopathic violence.

But such cruel savagery was limited to not just the malign-hearted. When the need for individuals capable of such inhumane barbarity rose, the civil called upon their most stalwart members to take up the arduous mantle of the monster. In the name of all that was morally just and good, these men and women were to spread untold horror, paranoia, and dread into the hearts and minds of all those who'd dare threaten the laic. Through this, fear could also function as a tool for the righteously benevolent. And it had been that very fearmongering icon of righteous deliverance that had quite literally given Hell a run for its money.

The unholy denizens thought themselves the pinnacle of cruel and abhorrent bestiality, but they hadn't even scratched the surface of true brutality. As such, they were vastly unprepared for the stark visceral barbarism forced down their individual throats by the castigator of the fallen dimension.

Immediately preceding the assimilation of Argent D'nur, the bastions known simply as the Night Sentinels struck hard against the oncoming demonic legions. Betrayed and now facing an inexorable defeat, they let loose a primal fury never once thought possible by even the most iniquitous of heathens. The forces of hell were battered and routed, again and again, but with every battle, the utmost minute casualties of the doomed bastions whittled their numbers down little by little. Yet their ferocity never waned, resulting in a prolonged subjugation that only came to an end when the Icon of Sin's advent–one aspect of the inconceivable price the exploited Sentinel had to pay–marked the final stages of the dimensional convergence. With this, the untold legions of Hell were wholly loosed upon Argent D'nur: eventually overwhelming even the stalwart guardians of the Argent Wraiths.

Despite the incredulous advantage of their numbers, however, it was not until all but one Sentinel remained standing did they shed their first drop of innocent blood. Until only the leader of the Night Sentinels, who was by far leagues ahead of their colleagues, stood as the last bastion of a doomed existence, the demonic wretches failed to lay a claw on a single noncombatant. Such was the unparalleled choler and sheer might of the dreaded Night sentinels. In the end, though, Argent D'nur was toppled and subsequently made one with the chaotic discord of Hell's fiery landscape.

Yet even this interplanar spectacle could not fell the dreaded leader of the now fallen Sentinels. Rather–seeing the flagrant insolence in which the abominable spawn treated with their once-home, as they perverted the scenic lands and architectural masterpieces, merely invoked an even greater enmity. Such vehement antipathy gave the survivor an unquenchable desire to bleed the entirety of Hell dry–to see rightful judgement brought to the villainous scum and their vile ilk for what they did. And satiate this thirst they did, again and again without end.

Leaving naught but carnage in their wake and bringing total butchery to the foul anathemas, the survivor of the Night Sentinels carved an appalling renown among the hellish hoards. They came to refer to this force of unbridled slaughter by countless names: The Hellwalker, the Unchained Predator, the Scourge of Hell, and the Doom Slayer are but a few.

But this tale has been spun numerous times before, anyone that's someone knows of the Doom Slayer's one-man war against the forces of Hell and all who would try to exploit it. Not many, however, know of the countless times this force of nature followed the bloody mire's natives through tears in the fabric of reality to squash any and all of Hell's plans to invade and assimilate even more dimensions.

These are the tales I wish to weave for your virgin ears. So gather around and listen closely to the Hellwalker's bloody escapades.

* * *

The crimson ether's stagnant, torrid and muggy climate bore down on the haphazard hellscape as Hell's ambient chorus screeched its discordant melody. Suffering interwove with excruciating agony to form the harmonious resonance of the damned, as the profuse pungency of brimstone, molten rock, voided bowels, gore and creeks of partially congealed blood neatly tied up the scenery. It was an everyday experience the Doom Slayer had long-since grown accustomed to.

Unlike most days, however, he had the commodity of constant movement to help overlook the footling sultriness. But such expeditious locomotion was stripped from him, as this was among the seldom instances when he voluntarily ceased the progress of his unremitting warpath–among the few moments where the constant bloodshed and utter extermination of all things demonic ground to a halt. Despite the anxious itch that afflicted him during this self-instated suspension of hostilities, the Doom Slayer wouldn't cause even an iota of disturbance among the unholy populace. For he would remain in the lackluster and utmost bare bone encampment set up in one of the many alcoves littering the cliff faces of the Krueger Bluffs, a series of cliffs that bordered the Burnt Basin–a deep bowl of jagged obsidian glass that held a lake of boiling blood and dots of land poking above the vivid scarlet here and there like flaky fingertips. What brought the Scourge of Hell to this damnable basin resided at the very center of the bloody lake: a platform and grand altar constructed of flesh and bone erected atop the largest island found jutting above the opaque depths.

Amassed atop the wicked structure was an unholy legion of Hell's crooked denizens: clouds of meandering Lost Souls, Imps, Prowlers, Hell Knights, Cacodaemons, Mancubi, Hellrazers, countless caged Pinkies, clouds of meandering Specters, and Summoners, all of which undoubtedly served the lone Baron of Hell residing among the riffraff. This sinful and abhorrent aberration lounged on a miniature throne, fashioned from innumerable skeletons, whilst examining that which laid before him. Seeing the macabre adornment that displayed its lofty position in the anarchic hierarchy of Hell decorate its sacrilegious form invoked a rage the Doom Slayer struggled to bridle. But he managed to do so, as allowing the white-hot wrath that kept his body moving to the rhythmic beat of murder would render the lengths he went to to get here for naught.

Having lost his sense of time long ago, the Doom Slayer could not recall exactly how long it took for him to arrive at his current location. Nor could he remember just how much time passed for the insidious structures to be constructed and the equally nefarious entities to congregate on top of it. All he could say for certain was that it had been quite the lapse of inactivity on his part. It proved worthy of such a lack of action, however, when the profane Archviles–creatures that served the role of Hell's ungodly priests–finally, _finally_ made their advent.

Huddled around the blasphemous altar, painted with a spattering of gruesome offerings, the Archviles performed dark constant dark and impious rituals. They had begun such irreligious activities quite some time ago, and none of them gave an inkling of ceasing. With a disgusted sneer, the Hellwalker tore his gaze away from their profane presence and turned it to the root from which all this stemmed. A fracture, a tear–a literal rift in the fabric of space-time made visible.

The plane of existence commonly associated with the descriptions of the land of sin was a literal hub for interdimensional disturbances. It did not happen exceedingly frequently, as such things tended to crop up whenever another plane prods the barrier, but when it did anomalies like the one the demons were crowded around popped up. Normally imperceptible to the naked eye, Hell's natural energy–combined with Argent energy–provided such phenomena with the medium to manifest as fractures in the air, on the ground, or wherever they might crop up. When this occurred, the possibility of manipulating and expanding said rift to force a gateway connecting to whatever existence decided to stick its nose where it didn't belong opened up. And on account of Hell's prior history with such things, the denizens were more than happy to violate the borders set between its dimension and the rest.

Suffice to say, the Hellwalker didn't take to the prospect as fondly as the demons did. Subsequently, whenever he caught wind of a rift's appearance, there wasn't a thing in all the planes that could prevent him from plugging it up. But until the abominable priests successfully forced open the passage, he could do naught but bide his time. For the only method of permanently patching up such a tear in reality required for the portal to be created first, or else the rift could simply be exploited again and again until the gate was finally opened. So, despite how it irked him, the Doom Slayer could do naught but wait for their sacrilegious rites to be completed.

But even the Unchained Predator's patience had its limits, and such a limit was put to the test countless times as body after body of the Unwilling were dragged to the bloody altar. A good thirty bodies were brought and scattered about the profane protrusion like worthless rubbish. Each served as nothing more than a sacrifice to feed whatever demonic powers were at work. Then, after the next fifteen, something finally occurred.

Following the forty-fifth sacrifice, after the lifeless carcass joined its fellows, the already putrefying flesh began to meld together. It was akin to seeing a watered-down gelatinous mass getting manhandled, forced into merging with countless other like substances as each was malformed and twisted. Virtually reduced to mere pale white crimson playdough, the meat tore itself from the gaunt creatures' skeletons before inching up the stony item of satanic worship. Eventually coalescing into a single mass of sinew, muscle, and visceral gore–a formless blob of meat and skin and hair and bursting blemishes under the control of the hellish priests. With a flick of the wrists, the damnable Archviles commanded the ichor to drain from the disgusting mass–leaving it dry–to form a great pentagram around them and their altar. Then the blood coagulated, before adopting an incandescent scarlet hue that soon outlined the profane clergyman, too. While glowing, their bodies fell limp and hung in the air like a slab of meat pierced by a gruesome hook. After a lapse of inactivity, their forms seized and contracted spasmodically–each unnatural spasm and bone-breaking contortion heralded the portal's advent. The Baron of Hell leaned forward on his throne, interest piqued.

It took little time for the blob of gore to react to the Hell priest's seizures: twitching and undulating in sync with its unholy masters. Before, finally, it began to squeeze and contract all of its stolen mass directly underneath the rift. More boils and pustules popped and sprayed their sick fluid about the grey stone as the sinew and organs began to wrap around each other, developing a sort of frame around the rip. Then the rest of the pale flesh proceeded to sheath the frame, filling in the gaps and occasionally forming a hook that dug into the very rift itself. And once the organic machination became whole, the various hooks digging into the disturbed space began trembling ever so softly. Then the priests' bodies splayed out like languid Starfish, vehemently undulating as the entire manifestation of gore began to pull in all directions. Gouts of blood and other fluids spewed forth from the meaty contraption as it began to develop splits and tears here and there, but it continued to pull and tug on the margins of the rift. A ghastly screech emanated from the disturbance as if someone was peeling layers of metal away with their bare hands and only grew louder and louder with each passing second. Vivid red arcs of jagged energy streaked out from the widening rift, as the horrific squealing transcended into a malign chorus of dissent crying out against their foolish efforts to defy the sacred barrier between dimensions.

These irregular bolts of red death raced up along the stony platform, leaving naught in its wake, and finding their way onto the occasional unlucky demon–each unfortunate individual turned pitch black as their flesh was charred, before exploding into a cloud of scarlet mist. Suffice to say, all but the greater demonic entities frantically danced to avoid meeting an untimely, grisly end. Among such creatures was the Baron of Hell, who, in his boredom, plucked an unwitting Lost Soul out from the air and gingerly crushing it between his fingers. Then he regarded the priests, barked something, and curtly interrupted whatever superfluous, ceremonial niceties drawing out the profane rite. This did little to accelerate the process, however.

The visceral manifestation of unholy energy continued to strain the fissure, pulling it apart in every direction. A trembling distortion beset the very space about the sluggishly expanding opening as scrapes of foreign benign darkness began trickling through. And with one final convulsion of both the priests and the shaped viscera, like that, it was done. Splitting at the seams, effectively destroying itself, the macabre amalgamation of gore wholly tore the rift asunder into a wide gaping maw that peaked out into a black haze unfamiliar to the constant red tinted light illuminating the entirety of Hell. It was a veil of shadows unlike those native to Hell. They lacked the insidious animation, that skin-crawling fluidity akin to the dark depths of an abyssal trench. And the stark malign nature found in the hellish place's seldom patches of shadows was absent. Unless the dimension beyond the opening was caught in a perpetual state of darkness, then it was probably nighttime. Barely visible dots of white flittered through the insidious wound, unsuspecting, before dissipating when exposed to the blistering heat of the profane plane. Snowflakes? Was the breach in existence exposing a plane currently under the effects of winter? When was the last time the gentle hue of snow and the joy of the ever-changing seasons greeted the warrior's hardened eyes? He could not wholly recall. Or perhaps it was merely innate particles of the tear itself.

Once ajar, the Doom Slayer watched as the decorated Baron heaved his hulking form off the morbid throne and approached the portal. This opening towered over even him and stretched out wide enough to fit three of him with arms outstretched. He then turned around, slowly, to face the onlooking legion. Without warning, the hellish denizen rose a balled fist up into the air before bellowing out something–the Hellwalker's distance kept the words from reaching his acute hearing. Then the demonic hoard joined their master's bellowing cry, throwing their clawed fists above their head, before blindly charging through the opening. And their leader made to join their zealous stampede, but stopped and threw a look over his shoulder before passing the threshold. For a moment, the Baron's paranoid eyes gazed in the direction of the Doom Slayer and, in turn, the last bastion glared back. But whether the demon managed to see anything or naught was never made clear, as he returned his attention to the task at hand and crossed the barrier.

And as droves of the damned filed through the gap, the Unchained Predator began moving to give chase.

The Scourge of Hell approached the perilous edge of the cavernous opening's maw, hands tightly balled up and quavering with anger. His eyes never once broke line of sight with the artificial Hellmouth, the abhorrence burning like thriving embers in a roaring bonfire. One hateful thought prevailed above the haze in his mind like a festering wound: "These sacrilegious heathens shall suffer tenfold more for daring to defile the very soil of another dimension."  
At this point, the Doom Slayer could no longer differentiate between the causes of his vehement rage. Everything simply blurred together into one malformed haze of disdain and negative emotions, poisoning his hardened heart and nipping at the ends of his frayed soul. But this toxic infection, brought on by the abominable denizens of Hell, could never diminish the clarity of the morals and beliefs he lived his life by–before and after the fall of his home plane. No amount of taint from this hellish landscape could rob him of who he was and where he originated. In this regard, he believed with smug satisfaction, the endless droves of the nightmarish legions failed to accomplish what they set out to do. And he'd be damned twice over before he let the foul demons a second chance at achieving what they couldn't with the lives of Argent D'nur.

A brief flash streaked its way across his consciousness, breaking the monotonous muddle of hostility and abhorrence. Images of lush greenery and breath-taking scenery interspersed with snippets of long-forgotten faces and voices. Something benign and forlorn tugged at the dulled harpsichord strings of his stony heart, for a fleeting moment it felt as if the weight of losing his home in its entirety finally began to press down upon him. But then he shrugged it off, returning to the task at hand as the old haze set back in.

For a moment, the Hellwalker beheld the machination magnetically appended to his person at the hip. The familiar sight of bluish-gray metal greeted his eyes, as well as the strobing lights emanating from the few buttons found on its handle. He carefully plucked the device from his side and brought it up to hold out in front of his chest, scrutiny divided between the interplanar rift and this tool.

It was an ambiguous shape too fickle to decide on whether it preferred looking straight and sleek or resembling the curved angularity of a dog's hind leg. Thin crossbars curved from either end of the handle, curving and weaving together to form a bubble about the entire thing, leaving an opening on one side to permit one's hand to slip through and grip the main device, as well as a slit towards the very top end of the thing. In the complex intertwined strips of metal resided a vague symbol: twin swords spearing a heart with an abhorrent and yet sagely benevolent monster's deadpan visage–only the Doom Slayer knew its meaning. And a constant hum exuded throughout the metal, causing an endless vibration to reverberate the material. This device served as his weapon, the instrument of his wrath–the last remnants of technological fruit his reality bore, a dreaded Argent long-blade.

Tightly he gripped the machination, kneading one of the buttons with his thumb, before returning his stalwart gaze to the planar anomaly. With Argent long-blade clutched in hand, he approached the maw's edge. The intense scrutiny he cast out examined the dwindling legion, finding that some of the demonic hellions were staying back to act as the Hellmouth's sentries. _Good_ , he thought, _then I shall have an interlude to wet my appetite before the main event_. His feet now tittered on the edge of the precipice. There wasn't a qualm to break the bloodlust beginning to cloud his heart and mind–the foul denizens of this place of brimstone and fire would know the fury of the Night Sentinels. Then, without so much as a second thought, the Doom Slayer took a single stride over the rocky opening's periphery and shouldered his fate off to the laws of physics.

Akin to a javelin lancing towards its target, the Hellwalker careened through the sweltering ether. The screeching wind tore about his helmet like a bat out of hell, whipping about his bulky metal clad form like a storm, as the ground rushed up to meet him. But he never once took his eyes off of the bleeding wound, a grim sight that invoked memories he did not particularly desire to recall. Flashes and glimpses of a bygone time in a forlorn place lost to the annals of time. Each of which merely served as a reminder of why such a passionate anger continued to bathe his soul with white-hot abhorrence.

Bastions were left to guard the Hellmouth and the Archvile priests, keeping a vigilant watch over the profane icons as they carried out their sacrilegious rite. The Doom Slayer could only chuckle inwardly at the demons' piteous attempt to maintain control, and he wondered just when they would learn the inexorable fate that befell all of their endeavors. But if they desired to walk towards the inevitability of death rather than run and prolong it, then by no means should he deny them their longing for such sublime release.

The ground below was nearly upon him, not but tens of yards separated his feet from the craggy lip that marked where the cliff faces merged with the curve of the bowl. A fleeting pang of pain pinched at the sides of his temple; an immediate stream of consciousness warned him of the proximity of the rocks below, briefly touching upon its lethality before advising him to shift the suit's usage of its Argent energy cells' power into the three-dimensional pressure compensation system. He complied mechanically, said instantaneous thought traversing the neural link to give the order to his armor directly. In but a fraction of a second, the energy usage of his suit's various systems diminished as it bolstered the aforementioned pressure compensation.

A smoldering orange-crimson hue began emanating from the metallic material, highlighting his intimidating form in a frightening glow. Simultaneously, a low hum resonated from the worn metal. The cracked bloody stone below reached out to grip the last bastion with its craggy fingers, vehemently grounding the once airborne individual like a fallen airplane. A thunderous crack then reverberated throughout the dried-up basin, as the hum and glow abruptly waned until naught remained but a dull ghost of what they once were and the stone underfoot fractured. He regarded the information provided by his HUD to find his suit's Argent Cells' reduced to twenty-three percent–just enough to maintain the core systems as well as the combat systems. Seldom times like these brought a wicked smile to his masked face. Luck seemed determined to keep favoring the Doom Slayer, and that was quite alright in his mind.

In the distance, the Hellwalker spotted the demonic sentinels begin to divide themselves into two groups. One group expeditiously hurried to meet him head-on, an asinine attempt to cut his assault short. And the other seemed dead set on entrenching themselves about their profane priests. This saddened him, in a way, as they wouldn't know the joy of dying together–as brothers-in-arms–but he doubted demons had such a capacity for sentimentality.  
Gripping the hilt of his weapon tighter, the Doom Slayer glanced down the lip for but a second before striding forward and beginning his descent down into the Burnt Basin. Today seemed a fine day to add to the already profuse levels of blood in the lake of ichor.

* * *

The descent had been short and quick, and yet by the time the Doom Slayer's feet made contact with the crimson sludge, breaking the thin surface skin of coagulation, the oncoming horde of hellions was already upon him. _Perhaps_ , he thought, _the intelligence of the Imps and Hell Knights have grown since I last did battle with them?_ There was merit in this line of thought, for the level of the bloody lake–it came up to his waist–impeded his movement. But in all likelihood, they probably hadn't an inkling as to the fact such a sludgy substance would hinder him. He never attributed mental prowess to the lower echelons of hellish denizens.  
Several condensed orbs of crackling fire careened through the vile either, trailing behind it wispy tails of fiery crimson energy, and aimed to strike him in the chest. But with a flick of his wrist and a press of a button, he swatted them out of the air and sent them plunging into the blood. The humming intensified in but an instant as a brilliant light stretched out from the device's opening. It took the shape of a longsword's blade, except there wasn't a lick of flowery detail to admire. It was of a simple triangular design that extended out for several feet before tapering to a point. And other than the appearance of constant fluidity in the blinding Argent energy it was comprised of, as well as the hilt, there was nothing overtly impressive about it.

Crying out in protest, the imps responsible for the projectiles beat the ground with clenched fists before reaching back and charging up yet another volley. Meanwhile, the more courageous of the lowly demons charged in with their Hell Knight brothers–the latter spearheading it. In response to their eagerness to perish, the Doom Slayer tightened his grip on the device until his knuckles turned white and began striding through the ichor to meet them head-on. Of course, even with hampered movement, he could still move at an equal pace with them.

One of the Knights, whilst running, leaned forward and launched itself into the air, showering half congealed blood everywhere. As it sailed, familiar tails of wispy energy trailed behind not only its body but its hands as well, specifically the one it kept raised above its spherical head. Due to its sheer mass and the strength behind its initial jump, the Hell Knight came careening towards the Hellwalker incredulously fast. But the ease with which one could predict the end of the demon's trajectory always proved to be the attack's fatal flaw.

He leaped forward, tucking and rolling, and avoided all but the resulting impact's spray of blood. Then he swiveled about with a sweep of his hand before hewing into the monster's back, feeling meager resistance as the blade of energy glided through muscle and bone like tissue paper. It managed to bury half of the blade's length into the soft flesh.

A satisfyingly agonized wail met his ears until the discordant screeches of its fellow daemons rose above it, one of which, an imp, drew nigh to melee range. The Doom Slayer grinned wickedly.

Jerking his free hand forward, he dug into the gaping maw splitting the Hell Knight's grey skin until fingers met bone–screams of anguish responded. The Imp continued its approach. Then he clawed through muscle and sinew until he found purchase on the item he sought. The Imp got within range. With a wide smile, he yanked back on the bony protrusion he vehemently clutched before an explosion of blood and loose bits of crimson flesh and tiny white fragments to some macabre jigsaw puzzle decorated the front of his armor like a serial killer's arts and crafts project. Snapping bone and rending meat graced his ears as the lengthy cord connecting the Knight's mind with the rest of its body pulled free from its fleshy case with a sickening sucking of air sound., inch by inch until the entirety of the bony rope–even the bulbous head!–was freed.

Then, in a single fluent motion, the last bastion swung the grisly mace, talk about disembodied, up and over his head like a pendulum, before bringing it back down and cracked the ghoulish toy into the head of the oncoming Imp. The two met with a flourish of split flesh, shattered bone fragments, and a mixture of grey and scarlet ichor. He released his hold of the now broken weapon and watched the now spineless corpse of the Hell Knight topple over in unison with its brained comrade–they made quite an unorthodox piece of modern art.

While caught in the admiration of his handiwork, one of the few other Knights lunged forward, bringing its foot into the Scourge's side and sending him careening several feet back. But the damned champion refused to fall prone, vehemently digging into the clay-like ground beneath the bloody lake and scraping along the lake bed until coming to a full stop, sending crimson wakes rippling across the otherwise stagnant surface. He held his head up high, screwing both eyes up into a baleful leer pointed towards the heathen. It roared in protest of the audacious scrutiny before unceremoniously dropping to all fours and leaping forward once more, clawed digits outstretched and aimed for his heart. The Imps and three other Hell Knights rushed to join the fray, three of the eight imps close enough to circle around and lunge for his flanks. And not but several feet behind them and closing in, fast, was yet another fiery volley. It seemed as though they were perturbed over something, and with the cruelest of smirks, the Doom Slayer wondered what he could have possibly done to anger them.

He flicked his wrist, flourishing the blade, before brandishing its wicked length. Oh, how he enjoyed these moments.

Pitched combat, even in its basest forms, is an unequivocal art-form of the utmost caliber. In this respect, it is anything but an exaggeration to describe a battlefield as a painting–a masterpiece composed with hues of red and black and silver and white and grey and azure and a rapturously macabre somber atmosphere. Every inch of land could become a palpable canvas at a moment's notice, and it never shied away from depicting disturbing themes and controversial subjects. But seldom do even the artists responsible for each rendition possess the stuff required to control the flow.

Most believe the only true masters of this described flow of bloodshed are the commanders, the officers, those in charge of the warriors doing the bloodletting. This sometimes proves true, however, it does not dictate who can and who cannot direct the painting. Truly, polished medals and high-ranks do naught to appease the lofty standards of this sultry mistress known as combat. She is a cruel and covetously demanding dame of the utmost perfection, in a morbid way, that will rip a father away from his newborn babe just as thoughtlessly guide a naive child to safety through the clash of fire. As such, only the warriors with the utmost grit and audacity can force this salacious seductress to bend the knee and obey like a submissive bitch.

Among these scant individuals, the Doom Slayer ranked among the greatest. This icon of righteous vengeance never stopped, not even for a second, until fear and terror became synonyms for the psyches of his enemies. He never ceased the bloodletting until the gallons of crimson could fill an ocean. And there was never a moment in recent years that he refrained from splitting flesh and tearing limbs, never once held his punches, and always sent heads rolling. Which is why he garnered the utmost respect and obedience from the scarlet-cloaked mistress.

And this submissive confidante was particularly pleased with how this addition to the Hellwalker's collection seemed to be panning out.

With a deft twist of the hand, the Doom Slayer brought up the humming blade to ricochet several of the volleyed smoldering shots. He could not deflect all of them, though, but the searing anguish that singed each point of impact simply fueled his bloodlust. These few returned phosphorous-like orbs zipped through the air, careening into the sunken sternums of the imps closest to him and boring and preemptively cauterizing a hole that left the profane denizen's chest cavity utterly exposed. They crumpled out of sight, bodies dropping below the ichor before their still breathing brethren could do so much as blink in disbelief. But the vehement choler that pierced their outraged screeches and guttural roars provided everything the Slayer could have wanted and more. These remaining Imps impulsively leapt forward, two on either of his flanks, with claws outstretched and wicked dagger-like teeth bared. A whitish red foam trailed from the corners of their craggy lips as the hellish plane's natural luminescence reflected off the bloody water's surface and brought out a malevolent sparkle in their eyes. Eyes, windows to the soul, were so full of vim and vigor. If you could not discern the level of life and resolve a man had through the manner in which he carried himself, then one need look no further than the eyes. And, oh, how the Doom Slayer longed to watch every last scrap of the light drain from those damned infernal windows. In said fleeting moments, he knew the sick delight such a sight brought him would make him forget the horrors of years, decades, whole centuries past.

Firmly stamping one foot through the thick and partially coagulated ick, he launched himself up and above the blood just in time to use one of the lunging demons' heads as a makeshift foothold. He felt the others' claws find purchase on his legs but otherwise paid it no mind. The searing pain that resulted from their sharp digits digging through the armor and biting into flesh only goaded him to keep going. He forced the fiend's head down as the muscles in his leg extended, the other's coiling in the fleeting moment it left the muddy ground below the bloody liquid. Then, as the Imp began flowing through the motions of falling flat on its face, the Doom Slayer brought his opposite leg up to plant his foot onto the knotty small of its back before using the inclining springboard to propel himself several meters up in the air; the profane denizen subject to the bastion's nigh indomitable strength vehemently lodged into the soggy soil below. A resulting shower of dazzling sparks sprayed out from where the Imps' claws were effectively ripped out from the suit, leaving decent piercings all along the lower torso.

Once up in the air, he used the momentum to pivot around and directed the hilt of his blade down at the cluster of demons. The glowing crimson hue dimmed until the Argent Energy no longer extended from the handle's mouth. Then, with a twitch of the finger, a nearly inaudible click heralded a shift in the weapon he brandished. Its flowery cross-guard receded and stowed themselves away in micro-compartments hidden along the handle, and once exposed the entire item began to change. At first, it split itself in half, horizontally, with a seam along the pristine metal, and then another seam vertically divided the shaft in an incredulously lopsided manner. Several jets of heat-saturated air spewed from the vertical crease, heralding a sudden split along the aforementioned line. While the back half remained unaffected, the two larger halves extended forward until they formed a perfect sixty-degree angle. Then the upper halves of the back tilted back before extending and fitting into sockets that were once hidden within the make of the armor's wristguards.

The open slit that permitted the blade portion to protrude shifted, moving from the top to the middle of the side and then producing several spindly appendages that sluggishly rotated around the mouth. Each resembling the spinners used in tandem with a spider's silk gland. When it was all said and done, it bore an uncanny semblance to a crustacean's claw.

From the opening emanated a distinct crimson fiery glow, of which expanded and expanded until the spinners pierced the expanding orb and began to manipulate its shape, bending and stretching the energy into a plethora of different three-dimensional objects, squares and stars to name a few, until the emanation resembled a tangled spiderweb. Once its final dimensions were determined, the orifice it secreted from emitted an intangible force which compelled the intricate webbing of Argent to propel countless small pellets from the accumulated mass.

The droves of smoldering crimson pellets cleaved through the air, leaving a visible trail where the ether was pushed aside for a moment before they collapsed in on themselves. They peppered the rippling liquid of the bloody lake, impacting and detonating against both the disturbed surface and the fiendish Imps. Each projectile tore through the muscle and flesh of the demons like tissue paper, shed their boiling alien ichor like tens of water balloons with each audible pop, blew holes into the already perturbed bloody liquid, and melted their barbed bones like molasses in a microwave. One of the abhorrent things lost more than half of its mass from the merciless onslaught; another had its head blown off, inch by inch, into a spray of red mist before the section connecting the lower and upper halves of its torso was literally carved away; and yet another had the meat from its hips up to its collarbone melted away until it was down to the freshest layer of the body–the stark, gore-strewn bone of the spine and rib cage.

When the red hail ceased to fall, the little that remained of the Imps collapsed into and disappeared beneath the darkening surface of the lake. And the Doom Slayer continued carrying through the air towards the remnants of the entities that meant to intercept and deal with their kind's ultimate nemesis.

Heavy boots clomped against the crimson rock of the hellish blood lake's center island, laden with the bodily fluids and visceral remains of the fallen. Liquid lapping at the edges of the protruding slab of slick rock was drowned out by the profane whispers of the parted portal. The Doom Slayer's vigilant gaze was steadfast, wholly locked upon the grisly sight of the altar and its damnable congregation of priests. Yet these gaunt, hovering and cloaked creatures failed to acknowledge his advent. So entranced by the task at hand were they–not even the disappearance of their guardians reached their apprehension.

Sauntering up to the circle of Archviles, his hand tightened its grip upon the hilt of his blade. Memories surfaced for but a moment before he forced them back down.

This was no place to recall such things.

Pacing around them for a moment, the Slayer stopped behind the apparent leader of the assembly. This one's back faced the portal it and its cabal tore asunder. He glanced back and examined the rift for a moment, fruitlessly trying to peer through the pitch black atmosphere which laid beyond. Then his gaze returned to the priests and their fiendish rite. Once again he felt his grip coil ever tighter upon his instrument of death, but he stayed his rage–now wasn't the time to enact justice upon the wicked. Not until he dealt with the incursion beyond, that is. Otherwise, the world beyond would be left to deal with the droves of demons on its own.

He approached the altar with a slow, meticulous gait as the hilt he held shifted to its projectile mode. The many spindles of the device, from a ball of Argent energy, wove a vast and intricate scarlet web. Upon completion, the Slayer stuck this pulsing web of condensed Argent onto the center of the sacrilegious tabernacle, allowing it to idly draw from the profane energy the Archviles focused into maintaining the portal. Then he turned and marched off, towards the dimensional gateway.  
Striding through the rift, the Doom Slayer felt something he'd forgotten countless millennia ago–coldness. The air of the foreign dimension suffused his heated armor with its frigid touch, icy fingers wriggling their way through the cracks and gaps of the material and brushing against his irritated skin. And the ubiquitous illumination which lit up the whole of Hell stayed back at the border between its own plane of existence and the other. Now only the light of the pale moon overhead cut through the mundane dark of night.

Looking around, he found himself standing at the back of the partially dispersed legion of demons which charged through the spatial opening. Said gate seemed to have parted and led into the center of the ruined and dilapidated remains of a city intersection. It reeked of sulfur and putrid body odor. The cacophony of the fiends' discord shattered the serene silence, their abhorrent cries and devil tongue insulting his ears with their mere presence. And this horde of fiends, headed by the tower of muscle that was their decorated lord, congregated around an area like the onlooking audience of an arena stadium.

The demons shouted and cried out in their broken tongue, vile words composed of even viler sounds. An undercurrent of echoing pops and thunderous cracks intermingled with the occasional clash and clatter of metal was present. He picked out few words amid the chaos, the profane tongue of the damned still alien to his ears. "Death!", "Weaklings!", "Soft-flesh!" and "Hatchlings!" were but a few. And rising from the fiends' discourse were the voices of unseen individuals, their high-pitch indicating youth and possible femininity from all but one, and they shouted to one another in yet another language he could not understand. Every so often–a pained cry emitted from one of the several voices.

Memories forced their way to the surface in a violent fury.

The young and the infantile cried out.

Whimpering children met his ears.

An unbridled rage was set free.

The Slayer lunged at the first unfortunate daemon to fall under his red scrutiny, and with the rippling strength of a thousand men, he plunged either hand deep into the flabby folds of flesh that made up its back. His sword clattered to the cement underfoot. The mancubus' glutinous jaw parted to unveil its gratuitous rows of yellowed, crooked teeth before loosing a thick guttural roar in agony. So shrill was the pain, its crescendo rose above the voices of its peers and garnered the attention of all but their repugnant lord. All combat ceased as the once combatants turned and watched the Slayer's vehement display unfold.

Only the sounds of the past reached his ears, though, and the writhing fiend's insufferable screeching did nothing to ease the burden pressing down upon the interior of his skill. He bellowed an enraged sound which drowned out even the mancubus, one that chilled the blackened souls of any demon who was unlucky enough to hear it, before digging the tip of his right boot onto the small of his victim's back and jerking himself up onto its fat shoulders.

It's one bulbous eye flicked up to gawk in horror.

He dug his armored digits into the abomination's meaty neck and yanked back, ripping the weighty head off its shoulders in a messy display of tearing tendons and stretching strips of fatty flesh, like plucking an egg from the nest. Its spine followed after. Jets of crimson ichor spewed forth like a fountain, the rupturing of skin and bone grotesque in its resounding audibility. Then its cries were silenced forever more. And yet the eye still stared, blinking once. Its tongue lolled out of its disgusting maw and hung limp to the side. The body staggered a single step forward, naught more than a dead twitch, before falling to its wrinkled flabby knees and collapsing to the ground.

The fiendish audience was left speechless, too shell-shocked for words.

Using the spine as a grip, the last bastion reared back and lobbed the freed head across the vast distance to the center of the horde. It slammed against the back of the aberration's muscled neck with a wet smack–caving in and exploding like a bloody water balloon upon impact.

Body tensing and standing at attention, the wicked lord raised his head and threw a glance behind. The glowing red embers that were its eyes fell upon the visage hell priests carved into the rock as a warning to all. A warning the lord never treated with even a modicum of seriousness. Its angular brow inched up, a furry caterpillar resting above its eyes, as a smirk spread across its vile lips. Jagged yellowed daggers lined up against one another as several rows in its mouth. An amused mien sat heavy on its cocksure countenance. The demon about-faced and extended its left arm and hand, gesturing to the Slayer.

"Unchained Predator," it greeted in its hissing, haughty tone. "It's fortunate you've come–for me, not so much for you."

The horrid thing had an incessant habit of chewing on nothing, affecting its hoarse and gravelly voice in an odd manner. Almost like it always spoke while eating.  
A throaty laugh curled past its pierced, craggy lips. "I had planned to beget the favor of my lord by subjugating this insignificant plane, but with you here, why–there's no end to the praise I shall receive!" Its arms spread out in a grand gesticulation. "I shall ascend above this _demeaning_ station I have been cast into!" It gazed up at the ever-reaching black sky and spun around in a circle, inch by inch. "And then I shall receive all that I rightly deserve! All shall bend the knee to me! I, Tapnuilohr, Slayer of the Hellwalker, shall be feared! I shall become a Lord of Sin!"

The Slayer reached down and plucked a chunk of rubble off the debris-strewn ground.

"And it all starts–" it faced the man anew "with your dea-"

Rage pulled the Slayer's arm back, clutching the debris, and then drove him to yank the same arm forward. The ruined concrete surged out of his hand, whistling through the dark ether faster than the eye could track. Once thrown, Tapnuilohr's speech was cut abrupt when the improvised projectile ran through one of its beady black eyes. The quasi-lord's hand shot up to cover the now scarlet leaking mess of black jelly which struggled to remain in its small concave bowl. It growled and bellowed in anguish, akin to the grinding of rocks, as the force behind the debris sent it backpedaling several steps. Each thunderous thud of its cloven feet punctuating the ephemeral pauses for breath between each pained roar. Once it composed itself, though, the fiend threw a furious one-eyed leer at the expressionless slate of the Slayer's helm.

"Impudent whelp, you heap of filth!" It rose the hand not covering its mashed eye and jabbed a clawed digit in his direction. "End him!"

And while the terror the Unchained Predator's presence, alone, invoked–the fear of disobeying their lord, as well as the courage imparted through their immense numbers, overrode any and all reluctance in their sinful little minds.

When the ire of the horde shifted from the youths, who had yet to make themselves known, everything save for the oncoming daemons faded away. The lightless ether burned a fiery crimson, singeing the edges of the bastion's vision with the muddled shadows of the past. Chaotic and boisterous, the resounding discord of the damned intermingled with the echoes of lives and people long since returned to dust that nipped at his perception. Boiling blood coursed through his veins. Either hand clenched and squeezed until his knuckles were white. Wispy lines of dark red trailed up out from the gaps and seams of his helm and its faceplate, and a thick shadow descended upon him, darkening and blurring the features of his armor like a shroud. A nigh-tangible miasma of wrath and ruin permeated from his very presence. And then a fleeting moment of lucidity washed over him, allowing a familiar voice to cut through the blistering rage.

 _{Rip and tear, until it is done.}_

Then his blinding anger returned, more vehement than before.

Leaping through the air, a Hell Knight held its meaty fist above its head as Argent accumulated around it in a wreath of green flame. It was exceptionally foolhardy.  
The Slayer reared back and threw his fist forward. It connected with the abominable knight's in a vehement crack of spasmodic resistance. Then the condensed Argent dispersed across his bracers, charring the metal. Bodily fluids sprayed out from rupturing veins and tearing flesh, bone splintered and peeled back like a banana peel as momentum carried the fiend's outstretched limb through the immovable pillar of rock that was the man's fist. It was like several layers of rolled up tissue paper being thrust against the razor edges of two crisscrossed blades. And once the creature's arm had been peeled open up to its shoulder, a profuse explosion of ichor painted the surroundings.

It landed with a heavy thud, fell to one knee and clawed at the gaping stump of its arm. The metallic sting of blood weaved its way into his nostrils. An agonized bellow crawled up its throat. Not one to miss a beat, the Slayer pivoted. He drove the knife-edge of his heel into the small of the fiend's back. The crack of bone resounded as the abomination now bent at an unnatural angle. It fell over dead.

Several shrill voices screamed from all around. He turned and swung the same bloodied battering ram. Its wide arch caught the closest of his new assailants. Red and green and grey fluids sprayed out from the once-head of the Imp. The gore splattered across a small mound of debris.

The hammering of his heart roared in his ears, challenging the cries of the horde for supremacy.

A paltry weight slammed into his back. He could feel the tearing of flesh between his shoulder blades and along his right shoulder. The infernal mass latched onto him, sinewy legs wrapped around his waist. It slashed and scratched at the metal and the flesh it protected.

Before he could reach up and take hold of the pathetic thing's head, the squealing of a third demon drew nigh. Still spinning with the momentum of his prior swing, he'd come face to face with the pink bull so many fiends considered a delicacy.

The Pinky rushed him, its great tusked maw ajar, and plowed head-first into his solar plexus. It was like bashing your head into a pillar of solid iron. A grunt forced its way past his clenched jaw. His breathing had been disturbed following the collision, and he fought to retain whatever air he had in his lungs at the time. Strength drained from the muscles in his legs, giving up several inches of ground to the demon's brazen charge. Pain bloomed from his shoulders and back.

He steeled himself and dragged air down into his lungs, the sound reminiscent of a throaty croak. Then he dug the heels of his boots into the fractured asphalt. One of the Imp's hands slapped and grabbed onto the visor of his helmet. He thrashed his head back and forth. An ear-splitting cacophony rose up from the conflicting forces. Bits and pieces of black rock sputtered out from where the metal broke through, vivid sparks cascading from the points of contact. Their movement ground to a halt.  
The Slayer shot his curled fist up and brained the piggy-backing Imp. A carousel of stars spun before its eyes. He then pounded the same hand against the Pinky's forehead once, twice, and thrice. Its skull caved in with a wet sucking sound. Either of its luminous scarlet eyes bugged out, eyelids going slack. A thick pink mass lolled out of its mouth. But it wasn't enough.

Seizing its two lower tusks, he sucked down another breath of air as he began straining his forearms in opposite directions. The splitting of flesh and whining of the sow met the Slayer's ears. Pinkish blood spurted out from the waxing fissure dividing the Pinky's head down the middle. Its whining crescendos, replaced with frantic squealing and gurgling. Bone strained and cracked until finally giving way and breaking in two. Then muscle and sinew and ligaments followed right after. Finally, the seam wrenched ajar like a banana peel–shattering a jar of pinkish red ink and splashing its contents everywhere.

Its once whole tongue was hewn in twain, swaying this way and that as ichor trickled down the tips like leaky faucets. What minuscule grey matter its skull guarded now dangled by its stem. The Pinky's body fell limp and crumpled into a puddle of its own blood.

With his hands freed, the Slayer jerked his shoulders back. The spasmodic motion loosened the sure grip of the rider. He reached back and took hold of the aberration's collar, digging each finger into the skin and around the bone. A single yank of his arm ripped the Imp off his back. The anguish of its claws being torn out stung him like insect bites.

The scrawny creature flipped up and over his head. He threw his first up and clasped the side of its hip. It lurched to a stop above the Slayer's head. An immediate jerk of his arms wrenched the body down. Taking a knee, he smashed the center of the Imp's back against the edge of his thigh. A crack heralded the shattering of its spine. Its body twitched and convulsed several times before the tension dribbled out of every muscle. Then he shunted the limp weight away.

Standing up with a roll of the shoulders, the Slayer flexed either arm and clenched his fingers. The muscle-bound tree trunks strained beneath the armor. His eyes narrowed, sweeping across the legion surrounding him in a red haze. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as air flooded and vacated his lungs in spasmodic breaths.  
Each demon surrounding him hesitated, reluctant to tempt Fate like their fellows did. But this did naught to diminish the Hellwalker's tireless fury.

He took a long drag of the air before throwing his arms to either side and howled into the night, head tilted back and raised towards the sky. The vehement, resounding bellow reminded the fiends of fear, of terror and dread. And as it reached Tapnuilohr's ears, echoing throughout the whole of the ruins, the cacophony of a nearby collapsing building dwarfed the vocal testament to rage for but a moment.

The Unchained Predator had only just begun to slaughter.

* * *

Tapnuilohr enjoyed toying with mortal insects, took a sick pleasure in it, and as such was especially fond of playing with the five unfortunate souls he and his horde encountered straight out of the rift. Not even the advent of a nuisance such as the Doom Slayer could detract from such bliss. After said individual arrived, he left the matter in the hands of his peons and continued toying with the only of the five mortals still standing.

Bartholomew Oobleck–the name of the man barely holding himself together. It was the one he knew, that is. Who knew if his four concubines' prater heard before each subsequently fell unconscious was to be believed? And this mere man, this Bartholomew, proved quite entertaining. For, unlike the other four, his albeit frail frame had withstood far more punishment. Not only that but his every attack hit harder than the women. As such, more of the whelps Tapnuilohr called followers met their end by his hand. Thus the fiend took particular interest in the man once all four of his mistresses fell.

Prior and proceeding the Slayer's advent, Tapnuilohr toyed with Bartholomew. He batted the insignificant man this way and that like a rag doll, guffawing all the while. Yet whenever he was knocked down, he stood back up onto shaky feet. Every time his meaty ham of a fist slammed into the other's side or his tree trunk cloven feet cracked the man across the cheek, he struggled back up to his feet.

No matter the attack, no matter the thunderous show of strength, Bartholomew refused to stay down.

However, no entertainment lasted for as long as you'd want it to. In this case, the Doom Slayer's unwillingness to lay down his life like a good dog spoiled the daemon's fun–just as Tapnuilohr had just begun to squash the man beneath his foot, too.

A cacophony rose up from the collapsing building and a tidal wave of dust nipped at the sound's heels. Tapnuilohr eased up on Bartholomew, stepping back and throwing his gaze over his shoulder. What faint moonlight there was dissipated as the dark brown cloud engulfed the whole scene. But this discord paled in comparison, not but a moment after, to the bellowing roar of the Doom Slayer. On and on it dragged, reaching up and piercing the high heavens with his vehement fury.

Those with little spine among the assembly were shunted to the ground, quivering like maggots.

The dense haze of debris did little to obscure the baron's vision, his smoldering pupils cutting through the screen to rest upon the enraged disposition of the Unchained Predator. Gore decorated his armor like a litany of war medals, and blood painted the metal a new hue. Slowly but surely, the cloud began to disperse and settle onto the craggy ground.

Dust and debris stuck to the ichor-splattered suit, dying him a muddy maroon.

Two blazing, seething scarlet orbs bled out from the ocular region of the helmet.

The insignia emblazed upon his forehead and the back of each hand glowed with the same fiery intensity.

Wispy trails of red curled up towards the sky from either orb.

A black shadow seemed to perpetually cling to him, muddling his features.

Hate and fear exuded from him in profuse waves, each nigh-tangible.

Every demon amassed around him took an instinctive step back, unadulterated terror etched into their visages. And for all his bravado and gumption, when faced with Hell's boogeyman, Tapnuilohr was no better than a sniveling wimp. But he couldn't allow his underlings to see him in such a state, not to mention allow them to defy him due to one man–no matter how horrifying.

"You pathetic whelps!" he bellowed, shifting and turning around from Bartholomew. "He is but one man–he bleeds just like you lot!"

The fiends looked from their master back to the Slayer several times, finding themselves stuck between a rock and a hard place. And Tapnuilohr knew he was losing control of the situation, and that fact infuriated him to no ends.

Fear gave way to overriding rage as he stomped forward, tossing aside imps like rag dolls with each thunderous step. His cloven feet cracked the asphalt, his clawed fingers balled up into ham-sized fists. The terror of the man's presence skirted the edges of his apprehension, probing the margins of his psyche as red blinded him. Dark green energy began to coalesce around either fist like a raincoat, crackling and popping when exposed to the cold atmosphere. His eyes, akin to smoldering coals, glowered with unadulterated hate.

The Slayer's gaze did not shift or waver for even a moment, further infuriating the Baron.

"You think just because you've frightened the dreams of sniveling babes, you scare _me?!_ " he roared not but ten long steps away from the other. "I am _Tapnuilohr,_ do you hear me! _Tapnuilohr the Bloody-handed!_ And you _will_ kneel before me in fe–"

The darkened form of the Hellwalker blurred and in the fraction of a second, he was hurtling towards the Baron's head. Whatever bravado his indignation invoked drained from his visage, just like the now ice cold blood. Death incarnate had launched itself at his head without so much as acknowledging the insignificant, hollow threats which spilled from his mouth. And as the mere foot distance which now separated them dwindled like the individual granules of sand in an hourglass, Tapnuilohr came to the startling realization of just how small he was compared to the Scourge of Hell.

But a final moment of defiance flared up inside him.

* * *

Feeling the immense weight of the abhorrent abomination lift up off of his person, Bartholomew made an effort to pick himself up off the asphalt. The world was a fuzzy mishmash of unfocused lines and partially blurred shapes–he'd lost his glasses at some point during the confrontation. Yet the chorus of carnage and putrid stench of death continued to come in as clear as a picture taken of a transparent waterfall on a cloudless sunny day. This included the anguish which set his entire body aflame.  
He hadn't expected to encounter these appalling entities here in the ruined city–there should have only been Grim and potential criminals on the mountain. Those he'd been prepared for, those he felt the girls could deal with. But not this. Especially not with the sheer number that poured out from the bizarre rift that parted the ether before them.

They were surrounded and overran. It was inexorable. However, he thought for sure they'd have been able to escape before anyone was badly injured. So he either overestimated the team's abilities or he underestimated their unknown enemies. Or was it due to the lackadaisical nature of Ruby? The bullheaded aggression of Yang? Maybe the overweening of Weiss? Perhaps Blake's hypocrisy and the resultant friction it begets in the group as a whole? Whatever the reasons, they were in their current situation and no amount of retrospection would get them out of it.

Thankfully, whatever higher powers that might be deemed it appropriate to interrupt the apparent leader of the abominations, before it could deal a finishing blow. Whoever this individual was–the entities trembled in their presence, whereas they laughed and guffawed when faced with the girls and himself. And for a moment, this terror even spread to the leader.

But then it stomped forward, bellowing its language of grating vowels and harsh consonants as it approached the armored man. He couldn't understand the reasoning behind this entity's sudden aggression, they both witnessed the sheer ferocity and brutality of the man–albeit less so for himself due to his circumstances. Yet the sheer contempt which radiated from the thing was nigh palpable, seconded only to the murderous aura which exuded from the individual's presence.

As it towered over the man, though, Bartholomew wondered just how the fight might go. He overpowered the abominations which heeded the beckon and call of the great behemoth that led them, but they were not like their leader. It was of a power that far exceeded the peons it surrounded itself with. Was it more than the new arrival could handle?

The professor squinted and tried to focus his vision on the fuzzy silhouette of the armored man. A sudden sensation washed over his body, causing goosebumps to crop up all across his skin. For a moment, it seemed as if the whole world's breathing hitched in his presence. One might describe it as the cosmic position of the planet being displaced several centimeters in response to some unseen force giving way to an insurmountable power. In a split second, where the individual once stood was naught but empty space; just like that, he was gone. Then he watched a baffling scene play out as if caught in molasses.

With a deafening crack, the lumbering abomination drove a fist into the side of its left knee, bending the joint at an unnatural angle, and jerked his entire body in the same direction. Gravity yanked it to the ground, and the sudden change in position narrowly saved it from oncoming death as the same individual rocketed past its head with a shower of shards and ichor. His momentum carried him ways away from the target, pulling him to the pavement with an ear-piercing crack. The sudden solidity of the earth did little to jar the stalwart bastion of metal and strength; he began to skid across the asphalt, deep runnels through the black asphalt trailing behind him. And after a moment, he came to a gradual stop directly in front of Bartholomew–clutching one of the curved horns of the behemoth in a gauntleted hand like a child's toy.

There was a piercing keening noise, then, which emanated from the entity as it pawed at the stump its right horn had been reduced to. A trail of stomach-churning fluids stained the asphalt. But the truly grisly sight to behold was the individual.

The proximity made the murderous intent and vehement fury exuding from his mere presence as thick as molasses. It was arduous to breathe when exposed to such an overwhelming aura. His eyes moved from the professor to each of the students, and then back to himself. This begot a single thought in Oobleck's mind: "Was the enemy of my enemy truly my friend?" Yet when the man's gaze shifted up from the concrete and onto him, there was an overt lack of interest. Nay, not a lack of interest–rather no aggression, no directed hostility. In fact, it felt like those glowing coals hovering over the eye slits of his helmet didn't even register Bartholomew's existence.

Despite all that, though, a sliver of empathy trickled out from the abyss of rage and hate that had swallowed the individual whole.

* * *

If the confounded demon hadn't shown such a brazen act of defiance, his death may have been swift–one does not usually experience much anguish when the entirety of their head was splattered across the ground. But in skirting around the Slayer's trajectory, Tapnuilhor sealed his fate.

He skids to a halt before a thin, scholarly man who was still collapsed on the black ground. The four women he saw not but several moments prior were on the ground, unconscious and likely bleeding out. Inside him, the inferno brought his blood to a broil. But when his gaze rested upon the relatively well-dressed man, bloodied and yet refusing to stay down, the fire waned for but a moment. And in the lessened oven of hate, memories of times long gone resurfaced anew. Had he been as strong as this man, then perhaps…

But there was no time to further the thought–the keening of the fiend reinvigorated the flame. He stepped back and reeled with the horn clutched in hand. The machinations in his mind turned the shearn appendage into a missile, a razor-sharp boomerang ready to spill the blood of the wicked.

Spinning around in one fluent motion, the Slayer heaved the horn and flung it forward at an arc. It was similar to watching a chakram being thrown as the tip whipped around and around like a saw blade. The sheer force with which it split the air begot a high-pitched whining noise as it careened its way into a crowd of fiends. Much like throwing a wrapped package of meat into a wood-chipper, it was a bloodbath.

Ichor sprayed out like a set of showers in a locker room, each body caught in the horn's path torn to ribbons as if in a grinder. It was all the same in the red tint of his vision. The object even impaled a few on its length, carrying each with it as momentum launched it into one of the many ruined structures of the city. A great upheaval resounded throughout the many streets as cement and metal crunched, broke and were sundered. Then a cloud of smoke poured out from the very same building, bleeding out and suffusing the area in all directions. It was like a smoke screen, it grated eyes and irritated nostrils as both's respective sense became muddled.  
Not the Slayer's, though–whether due to his helmet or the lust, he knew where his prey resided. The red of his vision almost highlighted each one, his smoldering pupils piercing through the haze. And perhaps it was for that very reason that the now outlined demons began to flee. They turned tail en masse before dashing back towards the portal, some in other directions, each scrambling or pushing or trampling over one another–all to get as far away from their waking nightmare as possible. Primal instincts working at their finest. But those who didn't run for the rift met with a terrible demise.

The man darted to each animated bag of meat, always leaving behind an afterimage wherever his movement waned enough for the mortal eye to track. It'd be like a flashlight flicking on and off to anyone watching from the sidelines. One second a fiend was alive and standing, then they were a pile of gore the next. No one saw the bastion land a single blow, let alone the one that killed; all but the ephemeral afterthought of his presence was a blur of motion.

As he carried out his work, the sound of a large mass scrapping along the asphalt reached his ears. Then a voice exclaimed, "Cowards! The lot of you!" broke through the cacophony of battle. Despite its brave front, the owner could not hide the quaver and desperation in its tone. "Not fit for the maggot heaps, all of you! Each and every one, you'll know what it truly means to be in pain when I'm through with you!"

He stopped dead in his tracks, remnants of a summoner's head clenched in one hand like a shredded rag. Glancing to the side, Tapnuilhor was what he saw. Crumpled to the ground, prone and shouting out to those fleeing past it, with one clawed handheld to its snapped knee and the other inching along the ground, the thing was dragging itself along the ground. It, too, moved towards the opening. The haughty always kept blowing hot air, even after being brought low.

A tight frown creased his split lips.

Uncurling his fingers and shaking the wads of red, white and gray from the nooks of his gauntlets, he stepped to the side and settled his eyes on the abomination. A sneer would have contorted his visage had Hell not already ingrained a perpetual hating scowl and furious frown upon it. He took one step forward, then a long stride and another. The still stagnant veil of dust could not save Tapnuilhor from his wrath, nothing could.

It must have heard the heavy falls of his boots because the chastising was quick to turn to pleas for help and its pace picked up. Whatever concern it had for its limb went out the window, now using both arms to pull itself along. Even with both arms, though, it'd never reach the portal before their paths intersected. His strides were too long and far too fast. The great, lopsided head snapped back and forth with fretful frequency, the one good beady black orb of its face dripping with dread.

"Waitwaitwait!" cried Tapnuilhor. "Oh, Great and Mighty Slayer of All That Is,, please bequeath the sniveling, undeserving maggot that is I your mercy!"

He continued to tromp.

"I-I can help you! Yes, yes even someone as lowly and undeserving as I can aid you in your conquest of the Umbral Plane! I have more use alive than dead!"

He brought up either fist, clenching his knuckles until they audibly popped.

"O-or-or–or…! I-I-I can get you anything! Anything at all, for I am a Baron, no one can question my requests! Name your price and I'll–I'll…!"

With a crack of bone, the Slayer planted the sole of his boot into the base of the demon's neck. It was pinned, now, under his sheer strength. Then he began stepping up and onto the whole of its girth.

"Anything, I'll give you anything!" Its voice was noticeably constricted. "Please don't–"

The Hellwalker reached for and took hold of the creature's only other horn, yanking it back. His crimson orbs, the ones bleeding from the slits in his helm, met with the terrified gaze of Tapnuilhor. Its facial features twisted in fright, grimacing and desperate to shrink out from under his glare as the color drained away. Each finger curled around the bone until several thin, web-like fissures stretched out from the points of contact. The demon howled but was cut off by his other hand jerking for and grabbing the upper half of its jaw, digits digging into the roof of its maw and knuckles pushing back the thick slab of meat that was its tongue. Then three low, hoarse words crept out from the lower region of his helm–a series of sounds so clear that they were the only thing it could hear, even amid the rest of the world's noise.

" _Give them back._ "

Brimming with venom, his was a curt statement that heralded the Baron's demise.

He wrenched his hand back. It, the mouth's roof, gave way like liquid candy. Crimson sprayed out as sinew and veins stretched, snapping and spurting bodily fluids. Eventually, flecks and globs of dark jade green began mingling with the hues of red as the nasal cavity burst open and added its own ichor to the shower. Then the black jelly of the eyes and their stringy, twine-like optic nerves joined the fray as he continued to tear. Soon his hand reached the forehead, to which he responded by yanking the opposite hand perpendicular to the direction said mitt had been carving. His fingers plunged in and shattered the bony barrier of its cranium due to the shift, causing him to scoop out a handful of gray matter and fragments of white bone as the appendage emerged anew from the top of its skull.

Then Tapnuilhor's body fell limp, its ruined head being the only part held up off the asphalt. Once finished, he released the horn, huffing before stepping off the neck. Looking around, the Slayer saw several stragglers from the prior slaughter. They were using the environment to cover distance faster than they would just by running. Meanwhile, the droves that decided to flee for the portal back home were avoiding him as they dashed past, circling around where he stood. Treating him as if he was a plague carrier.

The cloud started to disperse in the rolling wind. He could still make out the fiend farthest away, see it scaling a small building far off, and it was entirely possible that he could reach it, too, in a matter of a few seconds or so. And he wanted to, oh how he wanted to feel each demonic bone crack and blood vessel pop in the palms of his hands. But as his body readied to spring back into action, a calming voice drawled in his head and broke the epinephrine high.

 _{Time is of the essence, my champion.}_

His head rose up and oscillated all around. Without the red haze, he spotted the altar and a few of the priests among the fiendish bodies. The evergrowing orb of Argent, too, was in sight. It was a timed detonating emanation of his blade, one which was reaching the end of its fuse. And once it exploded, the rift would seal–forever.

So he glanced around at the man and unconscious girls, scrutinizing them. In his moment of clarity, he truly acknowledged the fact that they hadn't been torn limb from limb before he got there. Not only that, but for one to still be clinging to life and consciousness after being reduced to a plaything of a Baron? Such a feat wasn't something to be taken lightly, especially by him of all people. Hell and its denizens were no pushovers, after all. Though they were certainly in no condition to fight anymore, nor did the man on his own stand much of a chance, but if there were more people like them in this dimension? Then he felt confident that what few abominations survived and fled to elsewhere in this world could be dealt with without him.

About facing the prone man who was staring back at him. The Slayer made a quick gesture, knocking his fist against his chest thrice, bidding his fellow warrior goodbye and good luck. Before finally turning around anew to charge for the rift and fiendish droves, snatching up his tool from the ground and placing it where it'd normally reside.

Then the haze returned and his hands extended this way and that. Chunks of meat and a mist of ichor were left behind with each fallen corpse. Hell's sweltering heat gradually interposed itself over the welcomed chill of night, bit by bit, each intense wave begetting memories of aeons past.

A tight frown creased his mouth.

Reinvigorated was the now sundered horde's clamor at the sight of their monster giving chase. Some lashed out with claws, tooth or projectiles from sheer desperation. They met their fate headlong by his prompt retaliations. And those unfortunate enough to be within his proximity suffered a similar end. Those that remained scattered to the four winds, wading through the lake and towards the walls of the bowl.

While popping out a Hell Knight's head and spine, the Slayer could hear a shrill whining. It originated, he found, from the Argent orb. The condensed scarlet ball now hovered a foot off the top of the altar, an undulating spider's web of the same energy spread out from the center point and siphoning all it could from the available sources. If a manifestation could be bulging, burgeoning like a mouth filled to bursting with water, to be engorged, then this was certainly what it'd look like. As such, since he last saw it, its size had increased close to a hundredfold. Now it was whining, throbbing and pulsating as it struggled to contain what it'd already garnered.

It wouldn't be long before the sphere reached critical mass.

The Slayer spun the head by its spinal column, overhead like a sling, and cast the whole thing to the closest of its brethren. It collided with a wet smack, caving in against the demon's collar and dazing it for a moment.

Behind, the whining crescendoed into an exponential shriek as waves of energy made his hair stand on end.

He dashed towards the fiend, corpse in tow. Then, in an instant, the dead body was flung at the Knight like a doll. Their impact knocked the wind out of the still breathing one, as well as its balance–the momentum carrying both several yards back, together.

Shrieking turned to screeching and the rolling tide of energy caused the air to crackle and pop.

Just like a shadow, the man was already behind the two bodies. He reached out and wrapped either arm around the jumbled mess of limbs and torsos, tensing his legs for but a moment. Then he dug his feet into the ground before jumping back with all his might in the moment that followed. After, he tucked both legs up and behind his protective wall of meat, letting the immense speed of their collective bodies take him along for the ride.

There was an abrupt sound from the Knight before the deafening bellow of an eruption silenced the world.

What was felt in the waves before were droplets dripping into a lid compared to the deluge of the full release. The blood-red rock of the island was rent in all directions. An immense surge of force scattered chunks of debris and bodies alike, ravaging those unfortunate enough to be on the island to naught but viscera and scorching their flesh and the stone black with superheated air. This blistering heat ate its way through the protective metal around his arms, singing the hair and burning his skin. And even through the bulk of the two Knights, the Slayer could feel the Argent's power like a punch to the gut. His only saving grace was the distance put between himself and it before the detonation and the very mass of the shields in front of him.

The wind screamed in unison with the world as both whipped past his helmed ears. He could hear the discord of the lake's blood as it was tossed around by physics, rolling and lapping and trying to combat the explosive force while also attempting to fill in the new gaps and spaces opened up to it. An odd shift in the ether occurred, one which overcame the eruption's disturbance, and unsettled the man.

When the ball exploded, the resulting force caused the rift to collapse–that's how he always closed the portals. And when it did, it was like reality had begun coughing and hacking vehemently. The entire world always seemed to drop an inch from its resting place. He'd feel an ephemeral vertigo of sorts, an inward sucking that left him colder on the inside than before. Then everything reorientated itself to the new settings and it'd all fade. It just wasn't something you could just adjust to.

And when things did normalize, he and what remained of the Knights' bodies skipped once across the lake's surface. The sudden loss of momentum was jarring and broke his grip on them. Chunks of meat dispersed and he began tumbling, end over end, through the air. Despite the adrenaline numbing his body, of which wanned bit by bit, the detonation compounded by the water's smack left his everything throbbing in pain.

Then he skipped across the blood for the second time.

And then a third.

A fourth.

Fifth and sixth and seventh, each closer together than the last.

Two more skips later, he finally lost inertia's drive and was left floating face down in the ichor after slamming into the surface. Half conscious, he was fighting against the inexorable crash to stay awake. The taste of burnt copper was against his tongue and on his lips, both his own and not of his. And the lake's water lapped at his armor, seeping through the gaps. Then the perpetual light of the Umbral Plane was blotted out by an immense shadow.

He glanced above, neck aching as it craned, and saw the source–a spinning hunk of island debris the size of a small building. And it was already three or so feet away from colliding. It was the last thing he saw before blacking out.

* * *

All the Slayer knew, then, was black. Perpetual dark pervading an endless void in which he floated, listless. Emotion and thought had no place here, no meaning, nor did things such as direction or substance or time. He, too, had no purpose. No reason to be or amount to anything beyond a formless congregation of self cast adrift amid the abyss.

Was this death? Had he finally carried out his penance for all the sins committed in a time long since gone? Could he be free of the shame that befell him from transgressions past? Or did his eternal damnation for said acts come to plague him in the afterlife, too? If it had, then the man was at peace with his fate. To never be forgiven and lost among the nothing of death for eternity–it seemed a fitting punishment. Better to not beget memories of old to those lives he forfeited aeons ago, anyhow.

Then, where naught should have been, he felt pain.

Burning anguish.

A lone flower leading the charge of a whole field in bloom.

Then came a voice, stern and familiar.

 _{Rise–your work is still not through.}_

Next was a flash, then the dark was gone. Replacing it was a less infinite black, the burn of oxygen-deprived lungs and the crushing weight of the rock as well.

Emotion and thought had purpose anew, and both returned to his psyche with one vehement and unanimous list.

Air!

Strength and feeling flooded back into his body. Each muscle and every fiber of his being contracted as one. Bracing his arms against the rock and positioning his feet beneath him after wriggling either pair out from where it pinned them, he exerted his whole body. He lifted the stone up and off the lake bed. Once he could establish his footing, he proceeded to lurch forward and propel the rock out of the blood like a missile. Nearly sweeping him off his feet again by the current that manifested from such force.

Air!

His lungs cried for air!

Without really thinking, the Slayer chose a direction and leaped towards it. Despite the dense nature of the partially congealed blood, he was still able to push through and zip up to the surface with tremendous speed.

The mallifying lake was upset anew as her burst forth from its crimson depths. Malformed and gelatinous of the ichor sprayed out in all directions. His pale blue-gray and bloodstained armor was a blur as the streaked towards one of the basin's walls. For a moment, it felt like being in the void again, soaring through the ether. Then the scarlet steep filled the entirety of his vision, and he promptly smashed into the rock.

Gasping, he latched onto two of the stone outcroppings of the wall and began alternating between coughing, sputtering, inhaling and exhaling. Then he sucked down, even more, air, heedless of whether or not each mouthful reached its intended destination or not. Oxygen felt like a lozenge made of sandpaper going down his throat, scratching it raw yet alleviating the anguish of asphyxiation.

After a moment or two, he dug into the rock with the fingers of one hand until they were snug in the hole and found a place for either foot to rest. He released his hold of the other outcropping the opposite hand still held onto and glanced back, close to dangling off the cliff face. Far back, were the remnants of the island that the rift and altar once resided. The ichor was still trying to fill in the new gaps. A faint distortion hung in the atmosphere causing the blood beneath it to ripple. And the few stragglers of Tapnuilhor's horde there was were wading through the lake, aimless.

Their incursion had been stopped dead in its tracks once again. And another litany of demons fell to his might. Yet it was not enough.

He swung back around and slammed his hand into the escarpment, puncturing the rock. Then he reached up to do the same with the opposite. And again with the prior, forcing each pocket to open wider with the tips of his boots as he made his way up. Thus began the ascent up the wall. He still had work to do, after all. No time to rest, not if the wicked didn't.

On he went to finish his life's work–there were still demons to rip and tear.


End file.
